


The Grey Wedding

by goldenroses13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Forced Marriage, Gen, Minor Character Death, Multi, Protective Siblings, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Threats, Sibling Bonding, Suicidal Thoughts, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Uncle/Niece Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 15:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenroses13/pseuds/goldenroses13
Summary: “You’re almost pretty,” he says, cupping her cheek firmly and running a calloused thumb over her lips and forcing them apart. “Maybe you would’ve been, had you been a proper princess  —  a proper woman  —  and remembered your place in this world.”After 7x07.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly true to 7x07. This'll only be a handful of chapters - originally it was meant to be a longer one shot, but I wanted to gauge everyone's interest in this sort of story before continuing on. Anyway, enjoy?

It’s cold and damp below deck, and without the rising and setting of the sun she’s lost track of the passing days. Her clothes are looser now, slipping off her shrinking body  —  there’s even a gap in her leather boots from where her calves have weakened and thinned out. If Euron’s intentions are to starve her to death, well...at his hand, there would certainly be worse ways to die.

What Yara doesn’t lack is time to think. She’s already tried it all  —  picking the lock on her cell door with a hair clip, then a boot buckle. Attempting to play into the sympathies of the men she grew up with, who fought and killed under her command not too long ago. But it’s to no avail. 

So think is all she can do while she waits for death, torture, rape. Perhaps all three. But not rescue  —  no. She has no hope for that. Her fleet is at the bottom of the sea, and in the middle of war, the Dragon Queen will not pay much mind to one prisoner. Yara certainly wouldn’t. Not unless that prisoner was Ironborn, or blood…

Theon’s face, hollow and crumbling in fear, flashes on the backs of her eyelids. She forces herself to open her eyes and stare at the wooden ceiling of her cell instead. 

She doubts he still lives, left alone in the cold seawater to drown. He’s lucky. And she’s thankful at least one of them will have a peaceful end.

There are faint voices near the top of the wooden steps that lead down to her cell, then the creak and slam of a door. Through the bars of her cage, she watches several pairs of boots stampede down the staircase. Yara pushes herself up into a seated position and back into the far corner of the cell. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Euron’s men, drunk and slobbering after dinner, came down in vain attempts to frighten her, to grab at her through the bars. She knows it’s only a matter of time before her uncle tosses them the key to her cell. 

But this time it’s her uncle who appears, grim and sober-eyed, flanked by two of his men. He’s quiet for a moment, almost thoughtful as his eyes drag over her. Yara presses her lips into a tight, thin line, waiting for him to speak first. It doesn’t take long.

“The queen’s dead.”

Yara swallows, her throat bone dry.  “The Dragon Queen?”

Euron scoffs, leaning forward and curling his fingers around one of the bars. “Cersei Lannister. Though you might be displeased to hear it was not at the hand of your Dragon Queen.” 

She stands slowly, weak legs trembling under her weight like thin branches caught in the wind. She doesn’t miss the sharp grin that twists on her uncle’s face as she struggles to hold herself up.

“You murdered her.”

Euron shakes his head, slow and quiet, and Yara realizes he’s telling the truth.

“That wasn’t part of the plan.” 

“Of course not,” Yara says, venom in her voice even as it cracks, weak. “You would’ve waited ‘til after the wedding.”

Without another word, Euron takes a key from his pocket and opens her cell. Her heart drops into her stomach. She’d been so good  —  quiet and complaisant, never speaking out of turn. She takes two steps back before her shoulders hit the far wall with a dull thud.

“I saw your brother. No more than a week ago,” Euron says easily, closing the cell door behind him and resting against it.

_ Alive.  _ She feels her body swell with a sudden rush of adrenaline. It could be a lie. A mind game. But she allows herself to feel relief, just for a moment, even as she struggles not to show it in her eyes.

“He seemed well. We even had ourselves a little talk. About you. Gave him a perfectly clear offer. Bend the knee, and you live. He hardly even flinched.”

Yara shakes her head. “He’d be a fool to believe you. As if you wouldn’t slaughter us both as soon as you had the chance.”

Euron lifts an eyebrow, grinning again. He steps closer, slow, floorboards creaking under his weight, closer and closer. She drops her eyes but still feels the way he towers over her, hot breath ghosting over the top of her head. 

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” he mutters, lifting his hand. Yara flinches away, her heart slamming against her chest as she waits for the blow. 

It doesn’t come. Her uncle tugs a section of tangled hair from where it’s caught under the leather of her top, draping it over her shoulder almost delicately. He does the same with the other side, framing her face, like her mother would when she was just an unruly girl who cared more for collecting rocks and shells along the shore than how she wore her hair. 

“You’re almost pretty,” he says, cupping her cheek firmly and running a calloused thumb over her lips and forcing them apart. “Maybe you would’ve been, had you been a proper princess  —  a proper  _ woman _  —  and remembered your place in this world.”

It takes everything in her not to bite into his thumb, down to the bone, and end it there  —  let him beat her down until she’s dead and bloodied beyond recognition. She knows if she worked him into a rage it could be quick  —  painful, but quick at least. His temper wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of drawing it out. 

His hand slips off her face and drops down to her top instead, fingers loosening the laces.  _ So this is it _ , she thinks, feeling her body go numb, her mind starting to retreat within itself. It’s a reality she’s prepared herself for since the day she fully understood what men could do, the power they had over women. She wonders if this is some sort of retribution for the actions of her own Ironborn men, for the atrocities they committed under her command. How many women did she allow to be taken against their will? Hundreds? A thousand?

The air is cold on her bare skin when he finally has her undressed. As frail as she is now, she can’t stop the way she trembles. Euron drags a finger low on her belly, then takes a step away.

“She reeks. Let her clean herself up,” he snaps back to his men, eyes never leaving her. “Then find her new clothes  —  clothes that fit. The Queen of the Iron Islands can’t return to Pyke looking like this.”

Yara’s head snaps up, a sudden understanding cutting into her like a blunt blade. “Uncle-”

He steps out of her cell, the door rattling shut behind him.

“If either of you touches my bride,” he snarls to his guards. “I’ll kill you.”  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“Your men are growing restless.”

Sansa greets him late one evening with a bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread on a wooden tray. He’s told her time and time again not to worry over him  —  he has no appetite to speak of, and the food is wasted on him. Yet every night she stubbornly returns to his room and sits with him while he eats.

Yara has all but vanished. Theon knows he’s lingered at Winterfell for far too long. But he also knows he can’t waste any time following false leads or chasing ghosts. The ravens he’d sent to her remaining loyalists in Pyke all returned with the same answer. _Your sister’s not here. And your uncle’s not been seen for months._

The thought of her still at sea makes his stomach churn. He at least stood a chance of rescuing her from Pyke’s dungeons  —  his men could navigate those caverns in the dead of night, without a torch if they had to.

But tracking down Euron’s fleet? It could take more time than Yara has left. And meeting his uncle on the open water with twenty men would almost certainly be a death sentence.

He’s not leading a suicide mission.

“I know we’ve overstayed our welcome-”

“That’s not what I said.” Sansa gives him a close-lipped smile, setting the tray down on the table and seating herself across from him. “This is your home as much as it is mine. But your men aren’t comfortable here.”

Theon leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. He can’t recall the last time he slept a full night. “We can’t search every dungeon and harbor in the known world and hope we stumble upon her. She’s not in Pyke, she was never in the Red Keep…”

He’d done everything but search those dungeons himself to be sure of it. When Daenerys took the city, not long after Cersei Lannister had lost her heir and bled out, he’d waited for news. He’d dared to hope when Ellaria Sand was recovered, just a shell of herself. But she’d still had enough of her mind left to tell them Yara had left King’s Landing with Euron, chained to him like a beaten dog.

“And you don’t think your uncle is headed for the Iron Islands?” Sansa asks.

“He would have made it by now. The Ironborn have heard nothing. No preparations have been made for his arrival. He’s just…” Theon’s shoulders slump. He stares down at his food, growing cold. “He’s gone, and he has my sister. Maybe that’s what I deserve  —  living out my days, never knowing what’s become of her, or what he’s _done_ to her.”

Sansa lowers her eyes, letting the silence settle between them for a moment. Theon takes the opportunity to look at her  —  she and Yara could not be more unalike, yet they have more or less grown to be the same in his mind. He knows in his heart that he would have died to get Sansa out of Winterfell and away from the Boltons  —  or even remained with Ramsay himself if it meant she’d be safe from him. But even then, at his most fearless, he had acted too late. He could never undo what Ramsay had done to her, what he’d stood by and _watched_ him do. She’d carry it with her for the rest of her life.

“If she’s as strong as you’ve told me, she’ll make her way back to you,” Sansa says, looking up to meet his eyes now. “Or at least hold on long enough to be found.”

“And then what?” Theon asks, standing suddenly to cross the room and face the window, away from Sansa. He swallows hard, a silly attempt to stop the tears suddenly pricking the corners of his eyes. But it’s his quivering voice that betrays him. “I get her back, but she’s broken by the things he’s done to her. Unable to take a lover or have an heir, or do something so simple as sleep soundly at night. She could never quite comprehend what Ramsay had done, you know? She expected me to come back from it stronger  —  not weaker. She was so stubborn, I wanted her to understand...but not like this.”

“Do you think _I’m_ broken, Theon?”

“No!” Theon turns around, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the edge of a thumb. “No. I’m sorry, Sansa, that’s not what I meant.”

Sansa stands, tall and regal, just as beautiful as everyone always knew she’d be  —  and yet so far removed from the little girl he grew up with. Crossing over to him, she puts her hands on his shoulders and squeezes.

“Don’t underestimate a woman’s strength. We’ve survived thousands of years  —  despite the efforts of men like Ramsay Bolton and your uncle. I expect nothing less from Theon Greyjoy’s sister.”

Theon hesitates for only a moment before pressing his hand against Sansa’s, smooth and cold. She gives him a flash of a smile and then, with two sharp knocks on his bedroom door, the moment is over as soon as it arrived.

“Come in,” Theon clears his throat, squeezing Sansa’s hand before stepping out of her reach. One of Sansa’s young aides steps in, no older than fourteen if Theon had to guess. There’s a scroll clutched in his fist. He bows quickly to Sansa, then nods his head toward Theon.

“A raven for the Greyjoy prince, my lady.”

Theon freezes, eyes locking with Sansa’s, lips parted but no words coming out. She speaks for him.

“Well go on and give it to him, then.”

The boy nods nervously and places the scroll into Theon’s outstretched hand, bowing again before hurrying back out the door. Theon runs the pad of his thumb over the wax seal, his heart in his throat.

“Should I leave you to read it?” Sansa asks, her fingertips ghosting across his elbow.

“No. Stay, please.” He’ll need her here, if it’s the news he’s been dreading. He unravels the note carefully, smoothing out the paper and squinting down at the ugly scrawl. Written by an Ironborn, no doubt. He sees the signature first  —  Gelmarr Blacktyde. He recognizes the name from their earlier correspondence  —  one of only a few of his sister’s followers still in the Islands.

He reads the letter aloud.

_“Your uncle plans to return within the fortnight. The word from Pyke is that he travels with your sister. She still lives.”_

At his side Sansa lets out a soft sigh, relieved.

“ _She still lives,”_ Theon repeats under his breath, closing his eyes and allowing himself a brief moment of joy before continuing. _She’s alive. She’s alive, and you will get her back._

 _“The death of the Lannister queen has been devastating to Euron’s efforts. He has been advised to take our queen as his rock wife. He wishes to strengthen his claim to the Salt Throne by wedding Balon Greyjoy’s only daughter. Preparations are underway for a ceremony. Sail into Saltcliffe from the west and we will receive you and your men.”_ Theon chokes on the last words. _“Your queen needs you.”_

He slams the letter down on the oak table, his vision blurring with a rage he hasn’t felt in years. The thin paper crumbles in his fist, nails scraping into the wood and biting into the palm of his hand. He thinks of Yara, locked away in her own home, Euron using her body as nothing more than a plaything until her belly swells with a son or two. The room tilts and there’s bile in his throat  —  it’s Sansa’s voice, clear and unwavering, that grounds him.

“If he plans to take her as his wife, there’s time,” she says. “He won’t kill her so soon.”

Theon shakes his head and straightens his spine, wiping his eyes dry. “No. He won’t. Not until she has produced heirs and served her purpose. But I don’t intend to wait that long.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd play with the idea of a flashback and a different take on Volantis for this chapter. Hope you enjoy. xx

**_Volantis_ **

 

“I’m going back to the room.”

They haven’t spent more than an hour in the brothel, but it’s still an hour too long. Everything smells of sex and sweat, and it’s deafeningly loud. Every shout and slam of a stein on a wooden table makes Theon’s chest tighten. It’s suffocating.

But Yara’s at ease here. She blinks up at him and grins, slipping her hand out of the back of a whore’s silk skirt and grabbing the scruff of his neck, pulling him close.

 _She’s already drunk,_ Theon notes with mild annoyance, twisting out of her lazy grip. He wonders about the last time she ate — the journey was long, and the fleet’s supply was lacking. It’s no wonder she’s found herself in this state.

“I said I’m going back to the room,” he repeats. “I suppose I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Yara rolls her eyes good-naturedly and turns to the woman she’s with — a tall yellow-haired girl with soft curves and milky-white skin. Yara drops her forehead against the woman’s collarbone, eyes locking with Theon’s as she giggles into her long neck.

“He doesn’t have an appetite for this sort of thing anymore. Can you believe it?”

“I know a girl or two who could help with that,” the woman hums. She drags her eyes over him, head to boot, in a way that makes the room suddenly feel cold and clammy, or like there’s something crawling beneath his skin, struggling to rip free-

“No,” Yara says, suddenly serious. She grabs the woman’s chin, pulling her back in for a kiss. “Let him go.”

Theon scurries outside, relieved. The night air is humid and sticky — not ideal, but far better than the crowded, stuffy brothel. He takes a moment to lean back against the door frame and shut his eyes, treasuring the quiet. Barely a day spent home in Pyke, and they’re already on the run. His sister is calm — cocky, even — for someone who only narrowly escaped whatever surely gruesome fate awaited both of them after the Kingsmoot. The teasing, he knows, is the part of her that wants to go back to the way they were as children, before their brothers died. Before he lost himself to Ramsay. Before they were fleeing for their lives. It’s selfish and it hurts, but he almost can’t fault her for wanting something to feel normal and natural.

A door on the far side of the brothel opens and slams shut, pulling him away from his thoughts.

“You see all those ironmen in there?” a gruff, slurred voice calls out. “Taking two or three girls for themselves, the greedy fucks.”

“Aye,” another man answers. A glass shatters into the dirt, followed by drunken laughter. They’re getting louder now, closer to him, their faces cloaked in darkness. “They had one of their own whores with them, too. Did you see her? A plain little thing, her hands all over Kyra…”

Theon drops his eyes and steps away, still listening, as the men pass him.

“Doesn’t fancy a cock, you think? Pay Kyra a pretty price to get her alone in a room and we could fix that.”

The two men cackle again and Theon clenches his fists, lips trembling with words he doesn’t know how to form. The men are both bigger than him, taller too, and he’s still so thin…they could cut him down with ease, laughing all the while. By the time he manages to take a few shaky, slow steps toward them, they’ve already rounded the corner.

He turns and heads back into the brothel instead, shouldering past a few men and avoiding the touches of the women. Yara’s sitting with her whore, curling a tendril of the girl’s golden hair around one finger while they talk quietly, as intimate and quiet as if they were the only two in the room. He crosses over, grabbing Yara’s arm and pulling her up from the table.

“Yara. We need to go.”

It takes her a moment to catch up, lifting her hand for a blow before she recognizes him. She pulls away instead, face flushed and eyes on fire. But Theon just grabs her again, this time by the wrist, pleading with her silently.

“Sorry, love,” she grins down at Kyra, shrugging a shoulder. But he sees something in her expression soften, then. A glimmer of understanding. “My little brother needs someone to hold his hand when it’s dark out.”

Kyra giggles behind her hand, her laughter ringing in Theon’s ears until they’ve left the brothel, Yara at his heels. She shoves his shoulders him from behind once they’re outside, playful, but it nearly makes him stumble into the dirt.

“Why do you always do that?” Theon snaps, finding himself incapable of meeting her eyes as he struggles to straighten up. “Make a joke of it?”

“Oh, come on now. I came out here with you, didn’t I?”

“I didn’t call you out to walk with me,” Theon says, risking a glance up before focusing on the toes of his boots again.

“So why am I standing out here when I could be sharing a bed with the best tits in Volantis?” Yara scoffs.

“You caught the attention of some regulars,” Theon mutters at the ground. “Their words...weren’t kind.”

His sister laughs at that, a full-bodied cackle that makes Theon wince. “A couple jealous men don’t frighten me. And besides, there are fifty Ironborn in that brothel who wouldn’t hesitate to slit the throats of anyone who threatens their Queen.”

“They said-”

“Men say a lot of things they don’t mean,” Yara cuts him off, sighing through her nose. “Are you trying to protect me, little brother?”

He looks up at her at last, timid and unsure. But she’s not mocking him. In fact, she’s the most open and unguarded she’s ever looked — soft eyes, with no trace of a smirk on her lips. His racing heart — it always seems to be racing these days — slows a little. _She would never hurt you,_ he reminds himself, lifting his chin, standing a little taller. _She’s the only one. The only one who even bothered…_

“Only returning the favor.”

Yara smiles at that — pretty and soft, and not at all what he’s grown accustomed to in their short time together. Without a word, she threads her arm through his and presses her lips against his temple. This close, he catches the smell of cheap ale and the brothel’s scented oils clinging to her clothes.

“Very well, then,” she says, quiet enough that he strains to hear her. “Let’s get some rest.”


	4. Chapter 4

She doesn’t sleep anymore so much as she loses herself to exhaustion for a few, sporadic hours. When Euron’s men come to retrieve her from her cell she’s between worlds. Heavy eyelids and a groggy mind, like she’s been drugged. One of the men looming over her, tall and unsmiling, nudges her shoulder with the toe of his boot. He nods at the other guard when she stirs, and they drag her to her feet.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, hating how weak and tired her own voice sounds. She tries to clear her throat, to sniffle through her nose. She’d cleaned out most of the dried blood the night her uncle let her bathe, but it didn’t do much to help — she still finds herself forced to breathe through her mouth. The bridge of her nose could very well be cracked and crooked on her face. Perhaps, she thinks, it’s best she hasn’t been able to take in her reflection. It’s likely she’d be horrified by whoever stared back.  

The guards remain silent as they lead her through the dark underbelly of The Silence, but her answer comes soon enough. She’s steered into Euron’s chambers, dimly lit with a few low-burning candles and an oil lamp. Her uncle is seated at his dressing table, stripped down to his smallclothes, carefully trimming his beard with a pair of silver scissors.

Yara digs her heels into the floorboards. “I don’t want to be left alone with him.”

The man flanking her right side snorts. “You aren’t quite in a position to be giving us commands.”

“Over there,” Euron says without looking her way, waving to the far side of the room where three black chains with shackles dangle low on the wall. Yara tries to twist away, but she knows it’s pointless. She’s too weak, and even if she managed to fight them off, her legs wouldn’t carry her far. And even if they could, what then? Would she go overboard and into the sea, to drown? The men force her to sit, fitting one of the shackles around her neck.

The same guard who woke her with a kick takes care to tug down her sleeves so the thick fabric covers her wrists, creating a barrier between her skin and the shackle. She tries to catch his eye for a silent _thank you_ , wondering if she knows this man, but he slips away with the other guard.

She sits in the quiet with her uncle for a few minutes longer, closing her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at him across the room. The dull _snip, snip, snip_ of his scissors stops and she hears a few drawers slide open and slam shut again, then the wooden floor creaking under his weight as he approaches her. She opens her eyes, heartbeat quickening.

“You’ve scrubbed up well,” he says, kneeling in front of her. Yara does her best to turn away, straining against the shackle around her neck. But Euron grabs hold of her chin, pulling her back to face him. “And how are you finding the fresh clothes?”

Yara says nothing.

“Very well,” Euron says with an amused quirk of his eyebrows, using his grip on her chin to turn her head to one side, running a finger along the gash on her cheekbone. Yara screws her eyes shut at the sting, feeling fresh blood drip down her face. “A troublesome cut you have there. It keeps splitting back open, I take it.”

“You gave it to me,” she reminds him coldly, staring off into the far corner of the room. But she doesn’t miss him threading a curved needle, gasping again when he wipes the blood from her wound and punctures her skin.

The pain isn’t much — she’s lost track of the number of cuts she’s needed treating and stitched up over the years, but it’s dozens. She’d have to count each and every white scar on her thighs and arms to be sure. It’s Euron, breath hot on her face and neck as he focuses on his task, that turns her blood cold and makes her hands tremble.

“Do you remember the night I brought you aboard?” Euron mutters close to her ear. “My men would’ve liked nothing more than to fuck you through the hull of this ship. Not all of them, of course — a few would’ve spared you. You are, after all, Ironborn. But we’d been at sea for some time and I was inclined to let them have their fun with you — you have made my life awfully difficult, after all. But I said to myself, ‘This is my niece. I’ve known her since she was just a babe at her mother’s breast, and blood is blood.’ And so I kept you from them.”

 _For yourself,_ she thinks as Euron finishes his work on her cheek, wiping the wound down again.

“It should heal well enough for the ceremony,” he says, grinning slowly.

“You take me for an idiot,” Yara snaps. “As if I would ever believe that out of the _kindness of your heart-_ ”

“Of course you don’t believe me. But it is something to consider, is it not? Your ass of a brother left you here with me, to do as I wish,” Euron says, tracing her jawline with the edge of his thumb. He leans in closer and drags his bottom lip along her neck, his beard scraping hard against her skin. “So now, who exactly are you better off with, truly? Me or him?”

Without a second thought, Yara spits into his eye.

In that moment her uncle’s facade slips away. He throws his head back, his loud, wild laughter sudden and frightening enough it makes goose bumps rise out of her skin. Yara presses herself against the wall, wishing she could simply melt into it.

“My sweet niece,” Euron laughs. Her saliva drips down his chin. “You must miss your little brother. I do, too. In fact, I would like it very much if he arrived in Pyke in time for our wedding.”

Euron takes her shackled hand, almost gentle again. He kisses her knuckles, laces their fingers together.

“I don’t think I’m quite done with him yet.”

With one twist of his wrist, the bones in her hand and fingers crackle like a fire. Yara screams until her throat grows raw.


	5. Chapter 5

He finds himself unable to rest without visions of his sister polluting his mind, her body broken and draped with black chains, a mouthful of blood gaping open in a soundless scream. It’s strange — this realization that he cannot recall his last dreamless and truly peaceful sleep. He only knows it’s been years. The nights have not been kind to him for some time.

But awake, he tries to dwell on happier thoughts; the war over and Yara, capable and strong, on the Salt Throne while he stands at her side. He dreams of the children she would bear for the sake of their family’s line, little dark-haired babes that she would love despite herself and he would help to raise. Nephews and nieces he would treat as his own, who would grow up under their mother’s rule and come to view their homeland’s history as dark and barbaric and cruel. Children who would become future leaders themselves, and preserve their mother’s legacy for generations to come.

He thinks of her smile, too — the pretty and soft one he saw for the first time in Volantis — and how badly he wants to see it spread across her face again. He thinks of the hope and promise ahead of them, the life Yara unwittingly inspired him to live, of all the time they have to make up for their years spent apart. In many ways, he still does not truly know her, even though she has the ability to make him feel as though they were never separated.

It’s a beautiful vision, one he knows in his heart is too bright and hopeful to come to fruition. But he feels he must cling to it, for Yara’s sake, and the hope that she at least might live out her role in it.

It’s nearing midnight when he decides to leave, and the freshly fallen snow casts Winterfell in a quiet, eerie glow. A storm in the night would slow them down, he thinks, watching a lone snowflake melt in his horse’s mane as he fastens its saddle outside the stables. And a storm at its worst could keep them from setting sail from the peninsula. He’s heard the stories — white snowstorms over angry seas, devastating entire fleets. He calls out to his men, still groggy and sluggish from their interrupted sleep, urging them to quicken their pace. There will be no time to waste on this journey.

“Did you plan to depart without a goodbye, Theon?”

He turns to see that Jon has snuck up on him, almost as silent as a cat. The Dragon Queen is by his side, wrapped in her white winter furs and silver hair loose from her braids. The Ironborn, saddling their horses and packing their belongings, stop to stare until Jon waves them on. Next to him, Daenerys, small in stature but fierce in her bearing, observes the scene quietly, expressionless.

“You excused me at Dragonstone,” Theon reminds him, suddenly fearful the offer will be revoked. But what value could he possibly have here, with only twenty men under his banner? His eyes land on Daenerys, whose sudden warm smile instantly calms him.

“Of course,” she says. “We only wished to see you off at a reasonable hour.”

“I’m sorry to leave in the night,” he says. “But there’s no time. We’re headed for Sea Dragon Point, and we’ll sail to the Iron Islands from there. Sansa knows. I asked her to speak with you.”

“And so she did,” Jon says, peering up at the night sky as more snowflakes flutter down, bright against his black hair. “She woke us to deliver the news.”

Theon does not miss the brief look Jon shares with the Dragon Queen, or the way they arrive at some sort of mutual understanding in their silence. Jon gives her a polite nod before his eyes flicker back to Theon’s.

“I can strike down your uncle, Lord Greyjoy,” Daenerys says. “The war is reaching its end. I had no intentions of letting him hide away to regain his strength. Allow me a few weeks more to let the dust settle here on the continent, and then we can reclaim your home.”

Theon clenches his jaw, taken aback by an offer he’s already spent too much time waiting for. “With all due respect, Your Grace, my sister would be married off and be bearing my uncle’s child by then. And as I’ve already told you, I cannot wait any longer than I already have.”

“But she would be alive,” Jon reasons. “This may be the only way to ensure both her rescue and the survival of you and your men — fewer lives lost.”

“And I would rather have two Greyjoys living than one,” Daenerys adds. And then, softer, “You do understand why I could not face Euron sooner.”

“I do,” Theon says, though the resentment he can’t set aside still weighs heavy in his chest. _She’s too important._ Those are the words he heard time and time again upon his return to Dragonstone — Daenerys could not possibly risk herself by retaliating. _She means too much._ _She’d be a fool._ It was Theon who turned out to be the fool in the end, waiting aimlessly day after day in a quiet rage for someone else to take action and remedy his mistakes. “But Yara is my sister and my queen. She’s all I have left to fight for. I don’t want her back simply alive — I want her back with her spirit unbroken. That becomes less likely the longer I wait.”

A cold gust of wind blows past the stables, bringing with it a fresh swirl of snow. Behind him, Theon’s horse whinnies.

“I have to go, Your Grace.”

Jon hesitates. “You’ll need extra blankets for the horses.”

“We had no intentions of stopping you from leaving,” Daenerys admits, sharing a tired smile with Jon. She pulls her furs tight around her shoulders. “Only to extend a hand. Be careful, Lord Greyjoy. Bring your sister back to us.”


	6. Chapter 6

Euron leaves her chained to the wall like a prized kill, her mangled hand hanging limp and bruised in its shackle. He’s been gone for hours, she assumes — the candles and lamps have long since burned out, leaving her to be alone in her misery.

What would her father make of her, if he could see her now? She’d always been careful not to cry in front of him, to make him believe she was no different than the fierce sons he had lost. She let him see that she could earn the respect and admiration of a people who did not believe a woman should command them, and he loved her for it. 

Balon Greyjoy would not want her to live through torture and rape and abuse. She would not be the daughter he cherished, then. No. He would want her to end it on her own terms. 

_ If you’re so broken that there’s no coming back… _

Her wrists are thin enough now that, with some work, they could be freed from the shackles. The skin might be peeled from her hands, but she could do it. It’s the collar fastened around her neck that promises the most trouble. Even with free hands, one broken, she wouldn’t be able to pry it off. Wouldn’t be able to reach for the scissors on her uncle’s dressing table, or a splintered piece of wood to cut her wrists open. Could she strangle herself with the collar, instead? 

She might even save her brother in the process, too. If the wedding is a trap, she thinks, news of her death could bide Theon some time. No one would have to die for her sake. 

A floorboard creaks outside the door and Yara tenses, sinking her teeth deep into her bottom lip and praying it’s not him. But relief soon follows when one of Euron’s guards — the same one who took care to keep the cuffs from cutting into her skin, she notes — steps inside and lights one of the lamps. Face aglow, he looks more familiar to her now. But the memories are hazy and dreamlike.

“Have you come to take me back to the cell?” she asks, her voice thin.

“No. Unfortunately, I think your uncle is keen on keeping you close by,” he says, taking a small vial of burgundy liquid from his cloak. He pours its contents into a small cup from Euron’s table and kneels in front of her, holding it to her lips. “Drink.”

_ Poison,  _ Yara thinks. A mercy kill, and a civilized way to go. She tilts her head and gulps the drink down — it’s more syrupy than she expected, and almost cool and soothing going down her throat. Not sharp or bitter in the least. Yara looks up at the guard, frowning. She’d drank it in such a hurry that she hadn’t considered the alternatives — what if he’d merely drugged her?

“How long until it takes effect?” she asks carefully.

The guard lifts an eyebrow. “It should lessen the pain in your throat almost immediately, and in your hand in an hour or so,” he says. Then quieter, “You screamed loud enough for most of the crew to hear.”

Yara drops her head back against the wall and laughs, letting her tears fall freely down her cheeks. She does not care who sees her cry, now. Not when the end is so near.

“I want you to kill me, please,” she says. “Do it however you like. Put the knife in my own hand, if that’s easier for you. But if you have any sympathy for me, you will let me die now.”

The guard shakes his head, climbing back to his feet and refilling the cup with water from a pitcher. He places it against her lips again, helping her sip. “I won’t allow that, Lady Greyjoy.”

She laughs again and turns her chin away, refusing the rest of the water. “I know you. I remember my men, and you were never in my command. So how do I know you?”

His eyes meet hers now, dark and blue. “I was one of your father’s advisers before the Rebellion — you were just a little girl then. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”

Hundreds of men had followed Euron into exile after the Baratheon victory. She’d watched their ships leave the harbor, still quietly mourning the loss of her brothers and wondering what was to become of her, her father’s only heir. “So you’re a traitor, then.”

He grimaces. “I’m here for Balon Greyjoy’s daughter and rightful heir now, aren’t I?”

“I have no reason to trust you.”

The man’s eyes dart toward the door, then back to Yara as he fishes a small scroll out of his pocket. He unrolls it, holding it open in front of her eyes.

“Read it,” he says.

If her hands were not chained, she would smack him away. But then she sees the familiar lettering, and it’s enough to make her heart stop.

_ Gelmarr, Thank you for your letter. We will sail into Saltcliffe from Sea Dragon Point. Send any news you can of my sister and, if it is safe, let her know she should not be afraid. I will find her. Theon. _

“Gelmarr Blacktyde of Saltcliffe will receive your brother and his men in secret,” the man says. “You have friends in the Islands still, Yara. Men who will gladly die for you.”

Yara shakes her head, even as her chest swells with a mix of pride and fear. Though hope has been restored, it’s still such a fleeting thing. “No. You must write back to Gelmarr. Keep my brother away from Pyke — that’s where Euron wants him.”

“I won’t be sending a raven back,” he says. “It was risky enough to receive this on the open sea, but I knew you would need to see it with your own eyes. Euron may be anticipating a clash with your brother, but it will be the force and support rallied behind Theon that knocks him off his feet.”

_ If Euron found himself truly helpless, he would kill me out of spite,  _ Yara thinks. But while her life might not be spared, there might at least be hope for Theon…

“When do we arrive at Pyke?” she asks, welcoming a sense of urgency she has not felt since she was brought below deck, kept from the sun and the passing of each day. 

“Before the week is out. Your uncle intends for the ceremony to commence the evening of your arrival.” He looks away from her now, clearing his throat. “In the meantime, my lady, I have just a limited supply of the ingredients necessary to brew you Moon tea. It should not be so difficult to bring you some when your uncle has slipped away.”

“Moon tea?” Yara repeats, a frown curling on her lips. “Save it for when I do need it. He has barely touched me.”

The guard lifts his brow, curious. “He has bragged about having your body since the night you were brought onboard.”

Yara shudders at that and wonders, not for the first time, what he could possibly be waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all still enjoying! This has turned out to be a bit longer than anticipated, but we're coming onto the last handful of chapters - though I may write more for the Greyjoys in the future if there's any interest. Thanks all! xx


	7. Chapter 7

They sail into a small harbor on Saltcliffe’s western coast in the middle of a dark and frigid night. The stone house they are ushered into is small and simple, with blankets and cushions spread out across the cold floor. Not nearly as welcoming or comfortable as Winterfell, Theon thinks, but it will have to do. His men, frozen and half-starved from the journey, will certainly not complain.

“What news is there of my sister?” he asks Gelmarr late in the night, unable to sleep himself after his men have dined and drunk themselves into a slumber. “Have your spies aboard The Silence managed to speak with her?”

Gelmarr shakes his head, tossing another log into the growing fire.

“I do not know. Ravens go on occasion, but very rarely do they come back,” he says. “It’s too much of a gamble. But she knows you are coming for her, my lord, and that should give her strength enough to endure whatever they’ve done to her.”

Theon takes a long sip of his ale and stares back into the fire. He’ll have to be prepared to care for her, no matter what her condition is, or how lost she is in her own mind. Yara had been his sole source of hope for so long, and even now she’s as much as a beacon for him as he is for her. But now he will need him to be strong enough for the two of them.

He rests for only a few fitful hours before the sun peeks over the horizon, casting a red light through the windows. It feels like a dream, at first — the sound of the wooden door splintering and the clash of swords and axes being drawn and flung into flesh. Theon barely makes it to his feet before a kick to the gut and the hilt of a sword to his temple sends him sprawling on the ground.

Theon touches his hair. It’s wet. The last thing he sees is his own hand, soaked in blood.

 

—

 

He wakes up in his father’s old bedroom, his hands chained down to the arms of a tall wooden chair. His head is throbbing — it’s what he feels first, then the searing pain in his ribcage. His first instinct is to stand, wondering if he might be able to smash the base of the chair against the wall and free himself. But its legs are securely fastened into the stone, unwavering.

Bile rises in his throat at the same time his panic starts to set in. An ambush at Euron’s hands or a betrayal by the men he trusted, he should have seen it coming — should have been more prepared for every potential outcome. He’ll be of no use to Yara captured or dead. Theon gives his chains another strong shake, trying to split the chair’s arms from the frame.

“You won’t get very far.”

Heavy footsteps approach from behind, circling around his chair until Euron stands before him, grinning. Theon lurches up again, the cuffs biting into his skin.

“Where is my sister?”

“We’d hoped you’d make it for the ceremony,” Euron says calmly. “Though we couldn’t welcome your entire crew, I’m afraid.”

The bedroom door creaks open and two men step inside, flanking Yara, a tight grip on each of her arms. Their eyes lock instantly and for a blissful moment, he forgets about Euron — the relief from seeing Yara alive and standing all-consuming. There’s a red scar along her cheekbone and her hand is wrapped in bandages. She’s alarmingly thin — practically swimming in the silk black and silver dressing robe she’s wearing. But she’s clean — hair still damp from a bath and not nearly as bruised and bloodied as he’d feared.

Euron waves the guards away and takes her hand, pulling her back against his chest and kissing the top of her head. Yara looks away from Theon quickly, her face crumbling in disgust.

“I’ve taken care of her,” Euron says, wrapping an arm around Yara and slipping a hand inside her robe, fingers dancing under the fabric as he strokes her breast. “You see, Theon? You had nothing to worry about.”

Yara clenches her jaw, but Theon doesn’t miss the way her bottom lip trembles or the way her shoulders hunch when Euron breathes onto her neck and pushes his hips against her.

“Don’t do this to her,” Theon pleads. It’s all he can do. His own voice comes out so tired and weak it makes Euron’s lips curl into a grin. “Send us away. Exile us. The war of men is over and Daenerys will focus all her strength and resources on the living dead. If you let us go, we won’t ally ourselves with her any longer. We will disappear. And if it’s a prisoner you want, let Yara go and take me.”

“A prisoner? I want a queen,” Euron says, digging his fingers into her breast and squeezing. “Heirs. I don’t think you’ll be giving anyone heirs, Little Theon.”

Yara yelps, trying to twist away. “You’re hurting me!”

Euron spins her around, striking her with the back of his hand with such force Yara topples to the floor at Theon’s feet with a shout. Theon fights against his restraints again, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes when Yara looks up at him emptily and disoriented, blood dripping from her nose.

“Your supporters here are all dead,” Euron says, examining his knuckles, clenching and unclenching his fist. “And you’re making the foolish assumption that Yara would even want to leave with you after you abandoned her. Your own sister. Surely she’s questioned how much you care for her. How much you _truly_ love her. It’s over, Theon. The effort was admirable, I must admit. But at least you can die knowing that so long as your sister produces sons, she will be treated well here.”

Theon lets his tears fall, then, hot like fire on his cheeks. He keeps his eyes fixed on Yara, hoping the words he’s too afraid to say aloud reach her anyway. And through the blood smeared across her face, Yara smiles up at him, so fleeting he’s certain he’s imagined it — until she speaks soft enough only he can hear her.

“Have faith, little brother.”


End file.
